Hell's Hufflepuff
by apeljohn
Summary: The child of prophecy has survived the assault that took his parents from him, and grows up to seek vengeance. Only it's not who you think.
1. Prologue

I barely remember the worst day of my life. I was only a year old when my parents were destroyed by the forces of darkness, their shattered bodies left lying on the floor of their broken home. They fought to protect me, and I owe my life to their actions that day.

I know I shouldn't blame myself, but I do. You see, a little while before the attack, the Dark Lord Voldemort had learned of a prophecy that threatened to bring an end to his murderous campaign. A prophecy about a child, born in late July, who would finally vanquish him. A prophecy that perfectly matched... me.

Am I the child the prophecy speaks of? I honestly don't know. There was another... but it makes no difference. Voldemort is the reason I've never spoken to my parents, never eaten dinner with them, never had a stable home. I was brought up in isolation, with a guardian who had never expected to have to raise another child. I was fed and clothed and mostly ignored. When I woke up screaming there was no-one to hold my hand. Voldemort will pay for what he did.

That is, of course, assuming he lives. The wizarding world believes him destroyed when the curse backfired onto him, but I don't know if he had enough human left in him to die. I think he will return... and I will be waiting.

He will not find me unprepared. Ever since I first heard the story of that night, I have been training myself, preparing for the final battle with the Dark Lord. And today I go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where I will work to master my magic, in the hope that I will one day be ready to take the fight to him. I will work hard, and I will make allies of his other victims' families, for I am surely not the only one who feels this way. Voldemort, we're coming for you.

And when my friends and I cut a swathe through the Death Eaters, and when we isolate the Dark Lord and drive him from magical Britain to the ends of the Earth, and when I finally can look down my wand at him and say those two magic words, then maybe my parents will know what I've done and will be proud of me.

My name is Neville Longbottom, and I will have my revenge.


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: I tried to keep the prologue canon, albeit with two... um... _tweaks_. Firstly it seems likely that Augusta Longbottom would know about the prophecy - she's pretty high-ranking in wizarding society, not to mention rather intimidating, and the prophecy is known by the Ministry. If you were Minister of Magic, would you really risk not informing her of a potential threat to her grandson?

Secondly I've got Neville's parents being tortured into insanity to avoid giving up his location. The canon story is that they were tortured to find Voldemort's location. This seems to me like an _excellent_ cover story given that neither the Ministry nor Dumbledore wanted the prophecy becoming widely known. I haven't read the books from cover to cover in a while, so it's possible that there's something in there that would contradict me, but I'll take my chances.

Rated T for regular swearing and _nothing else_. Seriously, if I ever start shipping the characters, someone please crucio me.

Standard acknowledgement: Thanks to JK Rowling for generously letting us play in her sandpit.

* * *

Children's stories have always amused me. The clean black-and-white distinction between good and evil, the cheesy archetypes and plot tropes, the fantastic abuses and creative misinterpretations of perfectly well-defined magical principles... and the heroes. Oh my word, the heroes.

Try this out: A child is born under special circumstances. As he grows, he effortlessly exhibits unusual skills and talents. Eventually, after some life-changing event, he acquires a mentor who recognises how intrinsically awesome he is; friends who will happily act as one-dimensional sidekicks and full-time ego boosters; lots of special gadgets, charms and other paraphernalia; and an enemy who, despite being powerful and cunning and vicious, is easily defeated by a juvenile. And if you believe all that, I've got a bridge to sell you.

Sorry, kids. In the real world, _by definition_, most people aren't special snowflakes. We're just ordinary. It's possible to rise above the crowd but, since the rest of said crowd is busily trying to do the same thing, it's not bloody easy.

Those skills and talents? They don't come for free. When you've forced yourself out of bed at six in the morning, run five miles in the freezing cold before breakfast, and vomited on the pavement from overexertion, _then_ you have a right to complain if you don't grow up with muscles the size of butterbeer bottles. And until you've spent three hours straight firing stunners at a target, until you've stayed up all night learning new hexes, until you've collapsed from exhausting your magical core on Shield Charms, you'll get no sympathy from me for your lack of magical ability.

The mentor? If you're lucky - luckier than me - you'll get a grand total of two adults in your life who care more about your success than their own. They're called parents, and you jammy bastards don't know what you've got. Anyone who isn't a blood relative is unlikely to waste much time on you, not unless they're getting paid for it. So eat your greens and go to bed early when they tell you, and forget about wise old men with beards.

Enemies, on the other hand, are pretty easy to find. Humans are intrinsically hierarchical, and anyone who doesn't conform is an immediate target. Whatever your loving parents told you, the other kids aren't bullying you because they're jealous of you. They don't actually care about you at all; most of the time they're just trying to show their friends how hard they are. Evil is generally quite banal.

So why do we enjoy children's stories so much when they're so hopelessly unlikely? Simple: we're lazy. We all want to be the king's son who has princesses hanging off him, or the warlock who defeats the ravening nundu, or the Seeker for England. And we want to do it with as little effort as possible. We construct fantasies that aid and abet us in our delusions.

xxxxxxxxxx

I don't have those delusions, not since I first visited St Mungo's. So when I left my Gran's house on 1 September 1991, it was after a great deal of careful preparation.

Wand: check. My Gran, bless her, had tried to give me my father's old one when I was seven. Totally inappropriate, but I could understand why she'd be attached. So I saved up my pocket money for a year and a half, and sneaked into Ollivander's when we were out getting her a new hat. Mission accomplished.

Unfortunately, Gran got so distraught hunting for me that afterwards she just bought the first hat she found, without really paying much attention to what it was decorated with. When her friends saw the stuffed vulture they thought it was a bold fashion statement, and she's been stuck wearing it ever since. She may never forgive me...

Books: check: This had required a bit less subterfuge. The Longbottoms have a huge magical library gathering dust, and I've been reading my way through it for years. So as well as the set texts, I also had some more... advanced material to keep me company.

Uniform, cauldron, phials, telescope, scales: check.

Familiar: check, very reluctantly. Trevor the Toad is not the most _enthusiastic_ of familiars, and I've never really seen the point of having a pet. Maybe he'll grow on me. He'd damn well better not shrink, or he'll end up a tadpole.

And, of course, I took with me all the hours of training I'd been doing ever since I first understood what had been done to my parents.

xxxxxxxxxx

As my Gran and I flooed into Platform 9¾, I was stunned by how crowded it was. Several hundred witches and wizards - children, teenagers and their parents - were packed into a space half the size of a Quidditch pitch. We had to push and shove to get away from the public fireplaces before the flames could turn red again and scorch us.

The sheer variety of people on display was amazing. On the one hand, I could see members of noble houses in finely-tailored robes and elegant jewelry. On the other hand, there were lower-class types in a wide array of scruffy clothes. There were even a number of what I assumed were muggles, wearing tightly-cut blue trousers and short-sleeved buttonless shirts, and looking nothing like the pictures in my Muggle Studies book. The air was filled with the hubbub of conversation and the cries of carelessly-handled owls.

As I prepared to elbow my way through the crush, my Gran grabbed my elbow.

"Well, Neville," she said, "I shall let you find your own way from here. Do you have everything?"

"Yes, Gran."

"Wand? Toad?"

"_Yes_, Gran. I'm fine, honestly."

"Well, be sure to be on your best behaviour at Hogwarts," she sniffed. "Remember, the House honour is in your hands. You must make your parents proud."

I frowned. Gran had a knack for picking at my secret dread: that I wouldn't be good enough for my parents. I couldn't let that happen. I knew what it felt like to be a squib, magic-free and helpless, and the thought of finding myself in that position again gave me the shivers.

"I will, Gran. I can't go wrong if I just keep working at it, can I? _Labor Omnia Vincit_, right?"

Finally her mouth quirked in something approaching a smile. "Absolutely. You'll do well, my boy. Go show them what a Longbottom is made of." She turned and, with a glare at the portly wizard who was blocking her path, began forcing her way back to the fireplaces.

Making my way towards the train, I bumped heavily into an older boy with red hair and slightly tatty clothes. "I do beg your pardon," I offered.

"Not a problem, mate. Mind how you go," he replied with a grin. As he turned and started talking to the very similar-looking boy beside him - clearly a twin - I heard sniggering. I'd have to keep an eye on those two.

Finally, I made it on board the old locomotive and hauled my suitcase up behind me. The Extension Charm kept the weight down, but it was still a bit of an effort. I found an empty compartment, dragged myself inside, and collapsed heavily on the seat.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Trevor? Oh Merlin, where have you gone to now?"

So much for a quiet journey. At some point the blasted creature had crept out of my pocket and done a runner. I'd have to go looking for him. As I exited the compartment, I took a last look around the cramped space. Nope, no toad.

"Who are you looking for?" A voice suddenly spoke right behind me.

Gasping, I span round, jerking my wand out of its holster. _I _knew_ there were Death Eaters' children on the train! Why did I not have my wand ready?_ I deserved the hex that was no doubt flying towards my undefended back.

A brown-haired girl took a step back, shocked at my reaction. There was a small scream as she trod on the back of her robes and fell sprawling on the floor. A group of Slytherins further down the carriage laughed nastily as her face turned bright red.

I sighed to myself. What a wonderful first impression I was making, terrifying the other kids. Putting my wand away, I offered her a hand.

"Here, come on, let's get you up."

"Thanks."

"Sorry I scared you, I'm just a bit jumpy right now. Are you a first year too? I'm Neville, by the way."

"Hermione. Yes, I only found out about Hogwarts a few weeks ago. My parents were a bit, um, startled when the owl arrived."

"Oh, you're a muggleborn?"

"Yes, both my parents are dentists. I don't think we've ever had a witch in the family. Why do you ask?"

"Sorry, I've just never met one before. Don't take this the wrong way, but you seemed so _normal_."

The girl paused for a moment, clearly wondering if she'd just been insulted. Then she turned to me with a massive grin on her face.

"First time I've ever been called that before. Now what were you looking for before I so rudely interrupted you?"

"My toad. Blasted thing went walkabouts. Have you seen one anywhere?"

"No, but let's go find it. We've got an hour until the train arrives - I read about it in 'Hogwarts - A History'. Have you read that yet? Oh, but you're wizardborn, you probably already know this stuff. I've read all my schoolbooks, but I need to ask you..."

I smiled to myself as she chattered away.

_Friends: check._


	3. Chapter 2

A/N: There's a saying that everyone has one badly-written book in them, and you have to get it out of you and onto paper before you can write good stuff. This is that book. Consider yourselves warned.

I was delighted to discover that Longbottom is a real family name. It dates back to the Middle Ages, and the family motto is _Labor Omnia Vincit_ ("hard work conquers all"). Very Hufflepuff.

Standard acknowledgement: Thanks to JK Rowling for generously letting us play in her sandpit.

* * *

As I attempted to remove the rabbit ears from Hermione's head, I couldn't help but wonder where things had gone wrong...

It happened like this. As Hermione and I walked down the train looking for Trevor, we heard a scream from the corridor ahead of us. A burly kid stumbled out of a compartment, clutching his hand as if in pain. He was quickly followed by a shorter boy with a shifty expression and a third with a head of unmistakeable long white hair.

This could only be the son of Lucius Malfoy, nephew of the bitch Bellatrix Lestrange - Draco Malfoy. High on my list of people I would probably have to kill one day. And he looked really quite annoyed about something...

Hermione had stopped babbling about books and was now nervously watching the boys. Standard reaction. If you put most people in a violent situation, when the violence isn't immediately directed at_ them_, they'll freeze up and hope it blows over.

It's not a bad survival instinct, but as the three started striding in our direction I wasn't sure it would work here. Malfoy looked ready to chew nails, and if he was anything like the rest of his family he'd take it out on the first available victim. With my left arm I gently pushed Hermione behind me, and with my right hand I loosened my wand in its holster. This wasn't going to be pretty.

Unfortunately, Malfoy noticed the protective motion.

"Well well, what have we here," he sneered as he looked past me to Hermione. "Going by the clothes, it must be a... filthy mudblood. We'll have to do something about that."

Then with a smirk and a cry of "Tarantallegra!" he fired a hex at... me.

As the red bolt flew through the air towards me - such a small thing to cause so much trouble! - I realised my mistake.

There is a chess technique called the Skewer. It works like this: where an opponent has conveniently left an undefended low-value piece in front of a high-value piece, attack the low-value piece. The other player will be afraid to move their rook in case you take their queen. It's a vicious move, a sort of hostage situation in black and white. By placing myself in front of Hermione, I had similarly rendered myself immobile - if I dodged, she'd be hit by whatever-it-was.

I tried to cast a Protego, but the attack had come from too close up to give me enough time to do it properly. The red light punched through my soap-bubble thin shield with ease.

Standard doctrine at this point is to take the hex on the chin and prepare to return fire. Unfortunately, it had other ideas. The bolt hit me on the arm and instantly I could feel it travel down my side to my hips. Suddenly my legs spasmed, throwing me to one side and to the floor. Bugger.

As my knees kicked frantically, I could hear Malfoy speaking.

"Such a shame for a sweet little girl to have those horrible buck teeth. Here, let me give you something to even them up."

As he shouted the name of a jinx I didn't know, I finally managed to Finite Incantatem my treacherous feet. I rolled onto one knee and fired a volley of stunning hexes upwards, catching Malfoy and his hangers-on by surprise. They fell to the floor, faces locked in expressions of anger, fear and idiotic surprise.

I got to my feet just in time to see Hermione run away clutching the sides of her head. A pair of huge rabbit ears were sprouting out under her hands.

"Hermione! Wait up!"

As I ran after her, I heard compartment doors bang open behind me as people - finally - poked their heads out to see what was going on. Cowards. If they'd acted sooner, maybe Malfoy wouldn't have had the nerve to attack, maybe I'd have been faster blocking, maybe I wouldn't have failed my new friend...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"So you understand? It wasn't about _you_, particularly, it was everything you represent to them."

Hermione had finally calmed down and stopped sobbing for long enough to let me take a look at her. Another medium-powered Finite had done the trick, and her ears were now shrinking back down under her frizzy brown hair.

It had taken a couple of attempts because my hands were still shaking with adrenaline after the fight. Attacking targets - even ones that can fire back - is very different from looking down your wand at an enemy and saying the magic word. The parts of your brain that handle social hierarchies like to get involved and start telling you that, hey, if you miss then you're in deep trouble. And if you hit, you're in even _more_ trouble in the long run. It's easy to lose before you start, even if you notionally win.

Anyway, I was taking the opportunity to give Hermione the low-down on Pureblood politics. It's not easy, explaining to a ten-year-old girl that a good chunk of the magical world wants her head on a stick. Especially not when you're only ten yourself. But I'd done my best to put it tactfully, and she seemed to be getting her head round it.

"But why do Purebloods think that way? What did we ever do to them?"

"Nothing, really. Bullying isn't really about who did what. If you're a convenient target, someone will come up with a reason to hate you. You just have to make sure you're not an easy target. 's what I'm doing."

"Wait, aren't you a Pureblood? You don't hate muggles do you?"

"Erm... well, I've never actually met any."

"Never?"

"Never even met a muggleborn til now. That's the polite term, by the way."

"That's..."

"Weird, I know. I was brought up by my gran, and she's a bit set in her ways. I think she probably does have a bit of prejudice against muggleborns, but in her circles it would be considered frightfully improper to actually say anything about it. So I didn't have much chance to mingle.

"For what it's worth, I think it's all rubbish, so if I say anything rude by mistake please just smack me upside the head. And I _really_ hate the people who believe in it."

I noticed Hermione leaning back from me with a worried expression, and forced my face out of the furious snarl it had fallen into.

"People like that guy who hexed you, Malfoy? Fifteen years ago, some of them went off the rails, started cursing the country up for fun. Killed a lot of people. They cr... killed my parents, before they were stopped." I blinked a couple of times. No tears.

Hermione had a look on her face like someone had drowned her pet hamster. "Neville, that's horrible! I'm so sorry. I read about it in A History Of Magic, but I never really realised it was so recent."

"Well, it's over now. The wizarding world got lucky, hooray, we're all saved."

"You, um, don't sound very happy about it."

"I would be if I believed it. But I reckon that one day You-Know-Bloody-Who is going to find his way back to us. And even if he doesn't, there's always another Dark Lord in the wings. That's why I train."

I took the chance to set the hook.

"You, um, could train with me too. If you want to."

Hermione blinked, surprise flashing across her face.

"Thanks, Neville. I... I'll think about it."

"Sure."

"And thanks for trying to protect me back there. Nobody's ever... It means a lot to me."

"Didn't do very well, though, did I?" I said bitterly. "Anyway, let's drop the subject. What do you muggleborns do for fun?"

"Well, I don't know about other muggleborns. But I could do with giving my textbooks another read."

I grinned. Apparently it would take more than Battle Royale to distract Hermione from her books. And that gave me an idea. I started fumbling in my bag.

"You _could_ read your textbooks. Or you could read this." I passed her one of the dusty old books on basic defensive magic I'd taken from the Longbottom library. "Give you a head-start on Malfoy."

The look of fascination on her face was a joy to behold. Somehow I suspected I wouldn't be training alone for long.


End file.
